“And Edmund Kean probably thought the place was an absolute dump as well,” had been Meghan’s opinion on that subject.
Historical opinion was divided on the original seventeenth-century use of the Metronome. Debate raged in textbooks as to whether it had been a parliamentary annex or a high-class brothel. Lainie couldn’t see that it really mattered. It would likely have been frequented by the same men in either instance.
Personally, she voted for the brothel. It would add a bit of spice to the inevitable haunting rumours. Much more interesting to have a randy ghost who had succumbed midcoitus than an overworked civil servant who had died of boredom midpaperwork.
Aware that Bob’s idea of “in ten minutes” could be loosely translated as “right now,” she headed straight for his office, which was one of the few rooms at the front of the theatre and had a view looking out over the busy road. Her memories of the room were associated with foot shuffling, mild sweating and a fervent wish to be outside amid an anonymous throng of shoppers and tourists heading for Oxford Street.
“Enter,” called a voice at her knock, and she took the opportunity to roll her eyes before she opened the door.
Her most convincing fake smile was firmly in place by the time she walked inside, but it faltered when she saw the two women standing with Bob.
“Good. Elaine,” Bob said briskly. He was wearing his usual incorrectly buttoned shirt. Every day it was a different button. Same shirt, apparently, but different button. He had to be doing it on purpose. “You remember Lynette Stern and Patricia Bligh.”
Naturally, Lainie remembered Lynette and Pat. She saw them every week, usually from a safe distance. An uneasy prickling sensation was beginning to uncurl at the base of her neck. She greeted Pat with a mild unconcern she didn’t feel, and returned Lynette’s nod. She couldn’t imagine why the tall sharp-nosed blonde was here for this obviously less-than-impromptu meeting. She would have thought her more likely to be passed out in a mental health spa. Or just sobbing in a remote corner. Lynette Stern was Richard Troy’s agent, and she had Lainie’s sincere sympathies. Every time she saw the woman, there was a new line on her forehead.
It was Pat Bligh’s presence that gave Lainie serious pause. Pat was the Metronome’s PR manager. She ruled over their collective public image with an iron hand and very little sense of humour. And woe betide anyone who was trending for unfortunate reasons on Twitter.
What the hell had she done?
She was biting on her thumbnail. It was a habit she had successfully kicked at school, and she forced herself to stop now, clasping her hands tightly together. She had been in a running panic this morning to get to the Tube on time, and now she wished she’d taken time to check her Google alerts.
Nude photos? Not unless someone had wired her shower. Even as an infant, she had disliked being naked. She usually broke speed records in changing her clothes.
She blanched. Unless Will had taken...
In which case she was going to hit the stage and make short work of borrowing Richard’s sword, and Will was going to find himself minus two of his favourite accessories.
“Sit down, Elaine,” Bob said, his expression unreadable. Reluctantly, she obeyed the order—Bob didn’t do invitations—and chose the most uncomfortable chair in the room, as if in a preemptive admittance of guilt.
Get a grip.
“I’ll come right to the point.” Bob sat on the edge of the wide mahogany desk and gestured the other women to sit down with an impatient wiggle of his index finger. Reaching for the iPad on his blotter, he flipped it open and keyed in the password. “I presume you’ve seen this.”
He held the iPad in front of Lainie’s face and she blinked, trying to bring the screen into focus. She could feel the heavy pulse of her heartbeat, but dread dwindled into confusion when she saw the news item. London Celebrity had struck again, but she wasn’t the latest offering for the sacrificial pit after all.
It appeared that Richard had dined out last night. The fact that he’d entered into a shouting match with a notable chef and decided to launch a full-scale offensive on the tableware seemed about right. She took a closer look at the lead photograph. Of course his paparazzi shots were that flattering. No piggy-looking eyes and double chins for Richard Troy. He probably didn’t have a bad angle.
God, he was irritating.
She shrugged, and three sets of pursed lips tightened. “Well,” she said hastily, trying to recover her ground, “it’s unfortunate, but...”